Page 12 of Rules for Second Chances

“Ugh, the kitchen smelled like melted plastic for weeks. But that was microwaving food, Liz. This… I think you’re microwaving yourself. Your difference is your power. I want you to be happy the way you are.”

“But what if I’m not happy? It’s one thing to decide to be different. It’s not the same when you don’t have a choice. It’s like… being alone versus being lonely. And, Stel, I’m lonely.”

My throat tightens over “lonely.” I’ve always felt like there was some memo everyone else got that I didn’t. How to join conversations, find friends, make people like you and want to have you around. I’d like to make connections at work now that Ernie’s gone. As the only member of Ops, I’m so isolated I miss seeing Ernie’s one-word comments on the Ops Excel files, which is ludicrous.

And it’s not just work. My whole life needs a renovation. I want to knock out a wall and build a room for a husband or wife who loves me. All of me. And I desperately want to bulldoze over this hollow, scraped-out place in my heart where Tobin used to fill so much space.

“If this is what you want, I’m behind you,” Stellar says finally. “But your boss may die in an unlikely mishap is all I’m saying.”

“He’s not evil. He’s trying to keep a small company going in a tough market.”

She scoffs. “I’ll bet a hundred bucks and a hot shower”—the local currency at her work site—“he raised his hand at diversity training to sayhedidn’t have any unconscious bias.”

A tall Black woman with a puffy ponytail brushes past me on her way into Improv for Beginners. Probably she’s a good fit, getting in early. My stomach squeezes.

“I’d better get going.”

“Talk tomorrow,” she says. I can tell from the smooshed vowels that she’s scrunched her face up in our code for “I love you.”

My loneliness intensifies with the disconnection tone.

If I’d joined improv a year ago, Stellar might’ve come with me. Afterward, when I drove home, I wouldn’t have realized I went to the wrong house by accident, like I’ve done every day this week after work. I would’ve been happy Tobin was waiting for me inside instead of guiltily wondering whether he saw me restart my car and drive away again.

But it’s today, and I’ve got no one. I have to muster the courage to walk through the door on my own, even though my heart is thin and stretched out of shape from losing a presence as giant as Tobin’s.

Inside the classroom, eight kid-sized chairs describe a loose semicircle in front of a six-inch-high plywood stage. A ceiling-mounted curtain in hospital green makes a sad backdrop for the non-hilarious comedy stylings to come.

Stellar wasn’t wrong—improv is undignified. Only a desperate person would sign up, and now I’m surrounded by desperate people who don’t know what to do with their arms and legs when they’re perching on fourteen-inch-tall chairs.

I sit next to the woman who passed me in the hall, her mile-long legs scrunched, knees angled steeply toward her chin. I fold my very average five-foot-six body a bearable amount and pull my hair into a serviceable topknot in case things take a turn for the worse and I need to run away.

Two chairs down, a curvy fifty-something white woman in flattering knits pens a swirling “SHARON” on her name tag. Next to her, I recognize Jason Kim, sporting a BTS T-shirt captioned “I’m J-Hope’s evil twin.” Jason’s one of those world-traveling Australians who pick up odd jobs in Grey Tusk between ski days. He was the instructor for the corporate first aid course I organized after an unlucky but treatable incident between an overconfident intern and a cranky printer. The Australians all know one another and are friendly exes with a dozen locals each; their gossip networks are legendary.

And oh, god. Off to the side stands David Headley from West by North, staring at an orange plastic chair like he’s calculating the cost of dry-cleaning cooties off his pants.

Of course Naheed told him to take this class. He’ll scout out every way to curry Craig’s favor in the lead-up to the pitch competition.

My armpits prickle. I’d better be great at this, or between David and Jason, the embarrassing stories will take down my whole life.

As I take cleansing breaths and promise my stomach things won’t get worse, in walks the biggest redheaded man I’ve ever seen outside of a Netflix fantasy series.

It could only be Tobin’s best friend, McHuge.

And his badge says “INSTRUCTOR.”

It’s worse.

Everyone loves McHuge, an amiable ginger giant and part-time guide at West by North. He’s the kind of person who inexplicablydoes not look ridiculous with braids in his beard. Nobody but Tobin calls him Lyle.

Everything hangs in the balance for five slow seconds as McHuge strides to the front.

He must know. There’s no way he doesn’t.

“Peace and lov—urk!” McHuge chokes when he sees me.

My face is the approximate temperature of the sun. I would leave, but the only thing worse than doing improv is not doing it. Slinking back to my old life, defeated in minute one of trying to be the new me. Watching junior people pass me by year after year, pretending I can’t hear the whispers of pity.

“Peace and love, everyone,” McHuge manages, looking at Jason. “I’m Lyle McHugh. Everyone calls me McHuge, which is fine.”

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